


Avolition

by KJDN



Series: Living With It [1]
Category: Death Note
Genre: Blood, Depression, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, self-injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4110243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJDN/pseuds/KJDN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Avolition is a psychological state characterized by general lack of drive to perform activities or pursue meaningful goals.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story in a series of drabbles based around our favorite Wammy Boys and the various demons they live with each day. For Matt, his fight is depression. Some days are easier than others.

_I don’t want to do anything today.  
_

The hum of the laptop computer lulled the young man in and out of sleep, the dim rays of sunlight filtering past the blinds into the dingy apartment. The ceiling fan overhead creaked with each unsteady rotation.

_I need to do things._

He turned his head, staring dully at the numbers flashing on the bedside alarm clock: 1:24 PM. The first time he looked, it was 9:27 AM.

_I’m going to get up now._

He rolled onto his side, the world tilting with him. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He stared at a patch on the wall, a distasteful faded rosebud nestled in a nicotine-stained wallpaper pattern.

_It’s too bright in here._

His cell phone rang. He glanced at the side table, the name “He-Man” plastered on the caller ID. Mello. He watched as it transferred to voicemail, the Missed Call sign glaring angrily beside the timestamp, 2:10 PM.

_Maybe I can sit in the living room. I think my game is still paused. What was I playing?_

His eyes darted to the ceiling fan, watching the lopsided blades swoop around again and again. Dust motes floated in the streaming sunlight.

_Too fucking bright._

He let his arm dangle over the edge of the bare mattress, fingertips brushing the floor. He hooked his thumb around the strap of his goggles. He rolled over, shoving the goggles over his eyes, breathing in relief as the world became orange-tinted and less harsh on the eyes. 

_Mario Kart 7. That’s what I was playing._

The phone rang again. Matt reached out this time and grabbed it. He stared at the cool plastic in his hand, “He-Man” and “3 Missed Calls” plastered all over the screen.

“Hello?”

He barely recognized his own voice. It sounded hollow, distant. He watched the ceiling fan until he realized that Mello was talking.

“Sorry, repeat that?”

“I said, _what the fuck is wrong with you_?” Mello’s voice said impatiently. “I’ve called a hundred times. I need those fucking files, Matt. Quit being a useless git and finish your damn job, you arsehole.”

“‘Kay,” Matt said. He sat up in bed, resting against the stained wallpaper, one sock scrunched around his toes. He didn’t bother fixing it.

“That’s all you can say? You absolute dickwad. Do you realize what’s at stake, Matt? This could mean the difference between catching Kira, or  _getting killed_. I need the fucking files, right the fuck now. Do you have them, or don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Matt said. He blinked, watching the doorknob. Beyond that door was the living room, where his computer systems and video game systems lay in a tangled mass on the carpet. Empty cans and cigarette butts. Burnt-out matches.

“Yes you do, or yes you don’t?” Mello’s voice sounded far away. An echo, like chatting from different platforms of the underground station. 

_I need to do things._

“I know,” Matt said. He glanced at his empty cigarette carton. The corner shop was less than a block away. 

_I don’t want to do anything today._

“…f you can’t get it done, I’ll hire someone else, you fucking arse! Do you hear me? I phoned you because I thought you could handle it, but apparently I placed my trust in the wrong fucking person.”

“’m sorry,” Matt mumbled.

The silence on the other line nearly let him space out, until Mello’s voice came very quietly at his ear.

“Matt, I need you.”

The ceiling fan squeaked.

_Sorry._


	2. Intention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt struggles when the thoughts in his head become overwhelming. Self-injury is something he's become too good at.
> 
> Warning: self-injury, blood

> ** [9:47 PM He-Man:]  ** I hope you're feeling better, asshat.
> 
> **[9:48 PM MarioMatt:]** Yeah. I'm good.

_Liar._

Anything to appease him. The last thing he wanted was for Mello to worry. He had enough on his mind once the La Llave deal went south. It would take weeks to repair the damage. Mello didn't need to waste his time thinking about the stupid boyfriend back home.

He sighed, his head falling back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. His thighs stung. The tissue wadded in his hand stuck to the edges of the wounds, leaving wisps of white tissue mingling with the bright red blood slowly dripping down his leg. He watched mutely as the dark red bubbled up, beaded, and finally slid across his skin in streaks. He sopped it up with more tissue.

He shakily reached for the box of bandages, his fingertips staining the lip of the cardboard as he selected the right size. He fumbled with the packaging, carefully spreading the bandage across the gashes.

_Liar, liar._

He flushed the bloody tissues down the commode, cleaned up the wrappers, and washed his hands. Relief began to flood through his veins. His lungs felt lighter. He was tired.

_Better. So much better._

He wandered into the living room, gingerly lowering himself to the chair in front of the Xbox. His head felt clearer; less clouded and muddled.

_I don't know why I fight it. It's always so much better after._

He powered on the console and willed his hands to stop shaking long enough to kill some zombies. He could feel the bandages rubbing against his jeans. He hoped Mello would not come home early. He needed a week, at least. Two. He didn't want to see Mello for a month, just to make sure.

His mobile phone buzzed. Another text message popped across the screen. He dodged a Smoker as he ran into the safe house. He paused the game; flipped over the phone.

> **[10:24 PM He-Man:]** I love you, you idiot.

His chest tightened. He missed Mello. He wanted to see him so badly. But not now; not for a while. He couldn't let Mello see him like this. He licked his lips, tapping back a response.

> **[10:27 PM MarioMatt:]** Love you, too. Night.

_Liar._


	3. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt becomes overwhelmed by all the tasks needed to prepare for Mello's arrival. The ghosts of his mistakes are too loud. 
> 
> Warning: Mention of self-injury, suicidal ideation

> **[10:19 AM He-Man:]** I’m coming home tomorrow.

_ I’m not ready. _

Matt shoved another empty can into the bin liner. Three weeks. Three weeks since he’d seen Mello last. He should be excited. Should be.

_ He’ll hate me. _

He picked up a wad of newspaper and tossed it into the bag. The room felt enormous, full to the brim with rubbish. He knew it was in his imagination. It wasn’t so bad. Pick up trash; hoover the floor; wipe off the counter. Spray some air freshener until it smelled less of stale cigarettes and more of Hawaiian Breeze. 

> **[12:11 PM MarioMatt:]** Can’t wait to see you.

_ Liar, liar. _

Matt slumped against the kitchen counter. He ached. There was too much to do. He didn’t know where to go next. He needed to take the trash out. He needed to clean out the fridge. Mello would be disappointed. Mello would be angry. He had to get it done.

_ I can’t do this. _

He found himself drifting to the bathroom, locking the door behind him despite being alone. He sat on the rim of the bathtub, staring at the tiled floor. Numbly, he reached under the lip of the sink and gently touched the razor taped towards the back.

_ I can’t. Not today. _

Mello would be home tomorrow. He can’t risk it. His wounds still haven’t healed enough. They’re red and raw and sore; scars that he can’t give a good reason for owning. If Mello asked…

_ I can’t keep doing this. _

He stripped his clothes off, gently peeling his jeans away from his thighs. They no longer bled, but sometimes wept clear fluid and stuck to the fibers in his clothing. The small ones were barely visible. The large ones were scary.

_ He’ll know. What do I do? _

This wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. But Mello ran off for so long sometimes that he could brush it off as clumsiness. Playing with a stray cat. Falling down the stairs. Dropping the kitchen knives. But this couldn’t be explained away. It was deliberate, and painful, and obvious.

_ He won’t want to touch me. _

Matt stepped into the shower, wrenching the tap as hot as he could tolerate it. Steam filled the bathroom. He wished he could melt into the drain and float away. He wrenched the tap another notch, closing his eyes against the scalding water.

_ I deserve this. _

He slumped against the shower wall, sinking to his knees. He couldn’t keep the house tidy. He couldn’t finish his projects. He couldn’t keep groceries in the fridge. He couldn’t even keep himself safe. 

_ Why am I still here? _

He lost track of time. The water turned cold too quickly. He stared at the faucet, wishing it could turn itself. When his teeth began to chatter, he turned the tap off. He sat in the tub, naked, staring at the marks on his legs. Hideous. Grotesque. Morbid. He thought of all the words Mello would use to describe him. Lazy. Garbage. Useless.

_ I can’t do this. _


End file.
